Early July
Every visit to At Home Movies feels like a continuation of the world’s longest-running discussion of horror parodies. I start by telling Zach my thoughts, and he counters, defends, concedes before we move on to the next movie. But on the fourth straight day I go into At Home Movies, return the latest DVD (plus its verdict), and await Zach’s newest recommendation, he leans across the counter on his elbows and looks at me instead.
“What?” I ask, surprised. “No more Ciano movies? I thought there were way more than four.”
“There are,” Zach says. “I just have a question for you.”
My mouth goes dry as I wait for him to speak. What could he possibly want to ask me? Why does his complete and focused gaze, as if he’s scrutinizing something under a microscope, make me a little warm all over? I fold my arms against my chest to steady myself.
“Feel free to say that I’ve made a hard-core horrody convert out of you, if it’s true,” Zach says, standing up to his full height again. “I’dloveit if that’s true. But it just seems like you could be doing a million other things instead of indulging some random guy’s movie recommendations. If I didn’t have to work this summer, I’d be outside hiking and hanging out with my friends and…” He trails off, looking out through the glass doors of the store, and his lips twitch up before a warm laugh escapes him. I love the wide-open, carefree sound of it. Like it would never occur to him to contain it. I wish I laughed that way more often. “All right, watching movies. That’s what I’d be doing. But you seem cooler than me.”
“Excellent,” I say. “Then I have you fooled.”
Unfortunately, he’s still watching me, waiting for a real answer. So I sigh and sheepishly say, “My best friend kind of ditched me this summer. For a trip to New York viaeverywhere elsethat I was supposed to be on with her. She keeps texting and posting pictures online of how much fun they’re having. Like, she just sent me a picture of the amazing food they’re having for lunch.”
One of Zach’s eyebrows skitters up; he does not look impressed. “What they’re having for lunch,” he repeats pointedly.
“Yeah, but they’re, like, in the West Village.”
He shakes his head and moves to type something on the computer behind the counter. “Have you ever noticed how rare it is that the thing people are doing that you’re jealous of is actually enviable, in and of itself? She’s eatinglunch.”
“Somewhere I’m supposed to be,” I add stubbornly. “Somewhere I would rather be.”
“Okay,” Zach accepts. “Sometimes what they’re doingiscool. You get to ride in the president’s motorcade—fine, you win. But most of the time, people are doing completely mundane things and just making them seem better with their enthusiasm. It’s all in how you sell the story.”
I laugh and shrug. “MaybeIwant to do those mundane things.”
“You should get together with the rest of your friends and send her messages about all the great things she’s missing.”
“Yeah, that’s a good idea. I’ll totally do that,” I mumble noncommittally, since the alternative involves admitting that, apart from Katy, I don’t have that many friends. Acquaintances, casual orchestra friends, and people I could sit with at lunch if I needed to, but not the kinds of friends who think of you when you aren’t around. “So, do I get the next DVD or what?”
Zach leads me to the Foreign section of the store, picks up two DVDs, and gives me an eager rundown of both plots. In the end, I go with the one about a town of people who are emitting spiders out of all orifices—ears, mouths, eyes. I’ll save the one about possessed machinery for tomorrow.
I’m quiet and awkward around Zach. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything, just mentions that he’s expecting the full report again as soon as I’ve finished watching. He waves as I walk out.
The truth about me is that I’m not someone who goes out and has all these great experiences, and I don’t know what to think about him calling me on it, four days after meeting me.
I’m not like Katy, with all the boys she falls for and the way she courts attention and drama and diagnoses herself and everyone within a three-mile radius with illnesses. I’m not bright and loud and certain, though I love that about her.
In a way, it feels like I’m waiting for my life to start. Waiting for my life to feel as full and as vibrant outside of a melody as it does in it.
Sometimes I feel like I’ve sleepwalked through my life so far, with nothing significant or extraordinary happening to me. It’s time for that to change.
Even if I was good enough, this is why I’ve never wanted to go to Juilliard, why I don’t want to major in music no matter where I go to college. Music has always been my cover, the thing I hide inside of, and if I let it define me, I know I’ll just hide behind it again. And I need my life to get a little bit bigger than that.
AFTER
January
Katy is determined to track down the boy from the bus.
We arrive the next day—Thursday—at the movie theater entrance of the mall.
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me heworkedhere.” Katy has been strangely agitated ever since lunchtime, when I told her about seeing Bus Boy outside my house yesterday. I know she’s anxious about hearing back from Juilliard in a few weeks and has been working nonstop on four monologues in the hope that she’ll get an audition, but Katy’s impatience now seems unrelated.
“Didn’t I mention that he worked here before our movie the other day?”
“No, you just said he was here. It’s different if heworkshere,” she insists.
